


Communication

by genarti



Series: Clone Wars campaign [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Team as Family, and then we wrote a lot of fic to give each other more feelings, curmudgeon reluctantly befriended by squad, just picture Cog as Grumpy Cat basically, so my tabletop group played a Clone Wars campaign and had a lot of feelings, this is my contribution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genarti/pseuds/genarti
Summary: He'd stick his neck out for Bash in a heartbeat, if he needed it.  That's what you do for squadmates; it's what you do for clone brothers against danger, or against the Kaminoans' ideas of when an investment stops being worth the cost.  Bash is a good soldier, and his brother.  But that doesn't mean they need to be buddies.Or: a grumpy clone soldier comes to find that found family is, in fact, not a bad thing.
Series: Clone Wars campaign [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592614
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Communication

**Author's Note:**

> Fic for a Star Wars RPG campaign played between 2017-2018 that devastated all participants ([Lexie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexie/pseuds/Lexie), [sandrylene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandrylene), [varadia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/varadia), [ryfkah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryfkah/pseuds/ryfkah), and our GM [jothra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jothra)) enough that we all went on to write, uh, many thousands of words of fic. But this fic takes place before any of the devastating events! IT'S FINE. 
> 
> It takes place over some months within the first year or so of the Clone Wars, and you don't really need to know a ton of canon context (or RPG campaign context) for it. For some of the latter, though, check out Lexie's [character primer](https://wakeupnew.tumblr.com/post/190072369169/so-my-tabletop-group-played-a-clone-wars-campaign) and the other fics in this series.

Bash has wandered by, with a knock and a look of awkwardly determined friendliness. Possibly he thinks it looks casual. Either way, it makes him look much shinier than Cog knows he actually is.

"Hey," he says. H1F1, bobbing over his shoulder, gives a friendly whistle. "So, is this the kind of ship that -- uh, I mean. Uh, so, what do you think of the ship?"

Cog stares at him.

Bash tries again, earnestly. "I mean... It's a good ship, right? Or isn't it? It seems pretty good to me, but you'd know a lot better."

 _Affirmative,_ Cog signs.

"Uh... Which part was that to?"

He meant it to the first, but come to think of it. _One,_ he signs, and then _two_. There's no sign he knows for ‘both.'

He means it as a joke, or at least means to mean it as one, but he's not as good at jokes as he used to be, maybe. Bash takes a moment to work it out, but just when Cog thinks he's going to have to either type a clarification or gesture _never mind,_ comprehension and then wryness chase each other across Bash's face. H1F1 makes a little wilting burble. "Well -- yeah. I'm glad it's a good one. So, uh... What do you like about it?"

Even kriffing small talk is laborious these days. (Everyone he might have conversations beyond small talk with is back flying Z-95s with General Koon, still a fully functional soldier in a battalion whose commanders have any interest in being commanders or fighting beside clones, and any practice at doing it. And it's not as if Cog could hold up his end of a chat very well now anyway.) Why are they having this conversation?

Resigned, Cog types for a moment, so the vox-box can plod its toneless way through: "It's a solid ship." _Situation fine,_ he adds.

"Reliable's good," Bash offers, more tentative now, but still determinedly cheerful.

He'd stick his neck out for Bash in a heartbeat, if he needed it. That's what you do for squadmates; it's what you do for clone brothers against danger, or against the Kaminoans' ideas of when an investment stops being worth the cost. Bash is a good soldier, and his brother. But that doesn't mean they need to be buddies. And it doesn't mean Cog needs to sit through this.

He turns his back, focusing in on his instruments. There's nothing he actually needs to deal with right now, but that's not the point.

"Okay!" says Bash's voice behind him. At least the guy can take a hint. "Nice talking to you!" His footsteps recede, trailed by H1F1's disappointed whistle.

Cog starts a system scan running, since he's sitting here anyway.

He probably should feel bad. Bash was trying to be friendly, and none of that was fair to him.

He doesn't, though.

***

They're cruising through the Sujimis sector, on their way to Galidraan III. Cog's plotted an easy course, and he doesn't really need to be in the cockpit keeping an eye on things. He is anyway. Might as well.

Boomer's here too. They plunked themselves down by the doorway, not quite blocking the door, and pulled out the usual bag of knitting. "Hope you don't mind," they chirped at him over the handful of eye-searing yellow yarn. "I'll be quiet!"

Cog would have grunted noncommittally, but, well. He has to settle for noncommittal silence and a brief sidelong stare instead.

Boomer keeps doing this. It's not quite annoying enough to make Cog kick them out -- most of the time, anyway -- but it's not exactly welcome, either.

Cog would ask why they keep bothering, and keep refusing to get kicked out too. But there's not exactly a hand signal for that one, and it's not worth typing it up for the kriffing robo-voice. Anyway, he figures he can guess; Boomer is one of those people who wants to make friends, and has decided they're going to be. Cog is dubious about this conclusion, but at least the attempts aren't too grating, most of the time.

So he keeps an eye on the instruments, while the blue streaks of hyperspace stream by, and Boomer's needles click quietly behind him.

"What do you think?" Boomer asks, at length. Cog almost thinks it's directed at the air, or something -- it has that kind of tone -- but he turns around enough to look, and sees Boomer holding up their presumably-a-scarf thoughtfully. "Would Dax like this? It's kinda the color of a gutterguppy. You know, their bellies anyway."

Cog stares at them.

Boomer beams back. "Hey, though, if you want it instead, it's yours. Most of it's been knit in your cockpit anyway."

 _No,_ Cog signs, curt and decisive. The prospect is enough to justify typing, and hearing the toneless vox-box result: "Your yarn is hideous."

Boomer, of course, cackles. "Isn't it? I won it in sabacc."

Of course they did. Cog isn't interested in hearing about games of GAR Burst sabacc behind the lines, and the ridiculous things bored clones will trade around as stakes. Something like a ball of ugly yarn might make its way halfway around a platoon before somebody decided to keep it, or play a prank with it. He remembers items like that: Dart's macrame helmet cozy, Corker's novelty shotglass. He turns back to the controls.

Behind him, Boomer goes back to knitting.

***

Cog glances up from his holonovel (overwrought and disappointing, but it passes the time) when he hears footfalls outside the common room. He sets down the datapad entirely when he sees Knight Tai.

She smiles, just a shade tentatively, and enters. "Cog, hello. I hoped I'd find you here."

Cog stands, choosing to be selectively oblivious to Knight Tai's attempt to wave the gesture off. She's a Jedi knight, however academically minded and woefully inexperienced she is as a commander. He'll show the respect that's due.

She's brisk, as usual when she approaches him about something. He appreciates that, at least; she's not wasting either of their time with attempts to bond. "I wanted to ask you for some more information about this courier."

What information does she need? She's kriffing living on it, and she certainly has access to the specs and descriptions. Cog's expression doesn't change. He hits hotkey #1: "Yes sir."

"I have an idea of its capabilities, of course. I've been researching the details as well. I don't intend to waste your time with restating the manual. But you have a much clearer idea of exactly what the specifications mean in practice."

She pauses, waiting for a response. Hotkey #1 again, then. "Yes sir."

Her mouth firms slightly. "So I'd like to sit down with you at some point soon and go over what this ship's capabilities are, relative to other types of ship we're likely to encounter. Relative to common duties and obstacles, as well. I need to know what's reasonable to expect and what's a danger to us."

She's trying. He knows she's trying.

She's doing her best to be a responsible commander. The commander she clearly never wanted to be.

He thinks about General Koon, flying wingtip to wingtip in a wedge of Z-95 starfighters escorting a gunship. General Koon, with the tactical brilliance to keep track of a whole battle from the middle of his own squadron. General Koon overseeing repairs with Commander Wolffe, both of them elbow-deep in wires.

Cog's not up to starfighter piloting anymore. He's got a courier shuttle -- and he's grateful, because it isn't sanitation work on Kamino -- and he's got a Jedi Knight who's asking about what a courier's specifications mean in practice, because she's _trying_.

Hotkey #1, and #3. "Yes sir. Understood." He types: "I'm available at your convenience, sir."

He's not going to feel any more enthusiastic about this later. And either way, that wouldn't be reason to put it off; Knight Tai is right that she should know this. Duty comes first.

"Very well. Thank you." She folds her hands together so the long brown sleeves of her robe fall in a serene line in front of her. It's pure Jedi formality: graceful, dignified, the trained gesture of a diplomat or an academic. You can't fly a starfighter with a loose overrobe catching on the controls. "Would now be good, in that case?"

Hotkey #1 is the first one for a reason. It's useful. He hits it one more time, and leads the way to the cockpit.

***

On active duty, nobody bothers with shooting practice without a good reason. On the front lines, shooting practice is another term for life as usual, and on covert missions it's not exactly practical. On a courier or starfighter, there's even less call for it, because it's kriffing stupid to go shooting off blaster bolts in a tin can without an extremely pressing reason. Yeah, a blaster rifle's not going to puncture a hull without a lot of time and work, but there are a lot of other things that can go badly wrong from a stray shot or a burn-through.

(That's not to say no one ever has. Some clones, somehow, have managed to graduate from training without a shred of common sense. But thankfully, Cog's never been stuck in a squad with one like that.)

When your ship's docked on a larger freighter, though -- a military transport, built for getting lots of troops somewhere fast and having them be ready for battle when they get there -- it's a different story. There's a proper range room on a transport like that, and kriff all else to do. Cog doesn't mind sabacc or pazaak, or any of the other games that are standard downtime options on a frigate or behind the lines, but half the fun is the friendly trash talk that goes around the table. Anyway, there's only so many hands of cards a clone can play. And he's all caught up on what war updates make it into the holonews -- not much, but he doesn't want to go poking too much into unofficial sources from here -- and the ongoing round of Galactic Dance Battle.

Besides, keeping your skills sharp is important.

Which is to say, he picked up his rifle with a little _going to go practice_ lift of the gun and a _well I'm off_ nod to Boomer and Bash -- Dax having disappeared somewhere, as Dax does, and Target having wandered off a few hours ago mumbling something about catching up on reading -- and headed down to the range. When he gets there, he finds he's not the only one who had that idea. Target, helmet on as usual around potential strangers, is just keying open the door.

There are times when it would be really handy to just be able to call out a greeting, even if socializing was definitely not Cog's goal for the shift. (Or the day.) Well, he can't. He lifts a hand, but Target doesn't look around to notice it.

Which means that when he does enter, Target jumps and ducks his head like a startled greeper. It's amazing, Cog reflects, how you can _see_ the kid blushing through full armor. He knows Target's not a complete shiny anymore, but sometimes you'd never know it to talk to him.

It's tiring, and vaguely irritating, but he knows it's sincere, too. Target's insecure and twitchy under most circumstances. And Cog's not trying to kick baby voorpaks here. He types: "Mind if I join you?"

"Uh," says Target. "Sure? If you want?"

Cog nods. He doesn't exactly want, to be honest. But he does want to get the practice in, and Target's a good shot and a good soldier and part of his squad, and he doesn't want to be an asshole to the guy.

He'd be happy to let Target pick the targeting droids' routine. Cog knows what he could use work on, but it'd be useful to know what Target considers his own weak points, to better help compensate for them if needed in a real fight. But Target dithers and awkwardly defers enough that Cog, restraining an eyeroll, finally picks an option. Minimal cover defensive work it is.

Conversation before and probably after may be awkward at best, and mid-practice jokes are a non-starter. But battle -- even the toned-down mock battle of stun bolts versus practice droids -- is what hand signals are made for, and battle's the most comfortable common ground he's found with Target anyway, so far.

It'll do.

***

"Have you ever been to Orto Plutonia?"

Things Cog was not expecting today include: questions about Orto Plutonia. Company while he went over the shuttle's engine efficiency readings. Dax appearing out of nowhere to ask questions about Orto Plutonia.

They're all getting used to Dax appearing out of nowhere, though. It's gotten less surprising, just by habituation. Cog gives him a flat look, and shakes his head once. He's never been.

"Oh, okay. I was just wondering if you'd seen a narglatch. I mean I guess there might be some that aren't on Orto Plutonia, but, well. Not many."

What's a narglatch? Cog shakes his head again.

"Oh! They're felines. Harle was just telling me about them. They're really great, actually. You know the Talz worship them? The people General Kenobi and General Skywalker made contact with on Orto Plutonia. Maybe it's not worship, but they think the narglatch are sacred."

Cog nods. That, he's heard of. The whole Pantoran situation sounded like a mess. He doesn't know too many details, but his impression is that it's resolved, but only after a lot of unnecessary casualties, most of which were the fault of the Pantorans. The Talz sound like they were genuinely ignorant -- they don't even have spaceflight or speak Basic, apparently -- and the Jedi and their clone troops were caught in the middle. But he hasn't seen anything about big cats.

 _I heard,_ he signs. ( _Received,_ but in context it'll do.)

This is apparently all the signal Dax needs to launch into an enthusiastic explanation of everything he knows about narglatches, which turn out to be big blue cats. They live on Orto Plutonia's ice wastelands, which is nowhere their squad is currently assigned, and they're spiky and ferocious. But if for some bizarre reason you wanted to train one from a cub so you could ride it around, you can do that. Or at least the Talz can, and do.

Personally, Cog isn't sure any of this will ever be relevant to his life, except possibly the part about how they're vulnerable to blaster fire. But if Dax really wants to ramble on about it while Cog's running maintenance check numbers, fine. It's not quite annoying enough for Cog to kick him out over it, and running maintenance numbers is boring.

"You're not bringing one on the ship," he types up, to say into the next lull.

It's sort of a joke. Mostly. But this is Dax; it's probably worth saying, just in case.

***

"Hey, Cog, dinner!"

Cog waves comprehension without looking around, and Bash's footsteps retreat down the corridor.

There was piloting work to be done earlier, when they were in realspace near Kiribi. But for a while, the shuttle's been following its plotted course smoothly through hyperspace. There's reason to have a pilot on watch, in case of mechanical problems or a purrgil swarm or some other emergency, but not a lot that needs doing beyond that.

Which is why the first thing Cog does is power down the vid-player on which he'd paused an episode of Galactic Dance Battle when he heard someone coming down the corridor. (Alderaanian Trio-Slide Showdown; a few months old, but rewatching is better anyway for keeping most of your attention on the instruments and viewscreen.) The second thing he does is do one last check to make sure there are no signs of trouble before he heads to the mess hall.

It's not exactly the most exciting flight path. But that's no excuse for half measures or shoddy work. Anyway, excitement's for battle; a flight like this, you want to stay boring.

When he gets to the mess, everybody's already seated, except Boomer, who's distributing bowls. They picked up a load of multi-person meal packs last supply stop: less efficient on the march, but more efficient when you've got a shuttle's storage bins and a galley, however tiny. "Breadroot patty," they announce, "and dru'un stew with chasuka greens. Or so the GAR assures us."

Cog is not the only one looking skeptical. Not that he's ever had real dru'un meat -- maybe he'll ask Dax sometime what dru'un even are -- but he's pretty sure it's safe to disbelieve ration pack labels on principle. Knight Tai, who has probably eaten all kinds of fancy things in non-reconstituted form, lifts her brow ridges ironically, but accepts her share.

"Only the finest reconstituted fake meat for us," Bash agrees cheerfully.

"And Boomer doesn't have to do anything more complicated than add water," Target contributes, and then flushes. There's laughter, and Boomer claps him on the shoulder.

"Hey, a heating coil's just a very _contained_ thermal detonation, right?"

"And that's why you're only allowed to cook with hot water," says Dax, speaking for everyone.

 _Agreed,_ says Cog with one hand, spooning up stew with the other. The stew probably doesn't taste anything like dru'un, especially if Knight Tai's studiously noncommittal expression at her first bite is anything to go by, but it's not bad. He'll let the breadroot patty soak until it's soggier -- breadroot is a little crunchy for his throat, these days -- but Boomer apparently guessed that, and gave him the smallest one anyway.

Knight Tai points one claw-tipped finger at Boomer in an incongruously graceful gesture. She's probably the only one at this table who'll finish the meal without chasuka stuck in her teeth, too. "No cooking inside the ship with anything you think of as thermal detonation, Boomer."

H1F1 whistles something. "Good point, buddy!" says Bash. "Not that I'm advocating explosions, but isn't basically all of cooking a thermal reaction of some sort?"

 _Good point,_ signs Dax. Cog is the only one who actually needs to use signs off a battlefield, but the rest of the squad has been picking up the habit anyway. Dax adds helpfully, "And all our metabolisms."

Cog has considered adding What made you think this was a good idea to his wrist comm's hotkeys. He probably should. If he had it already, he'd be hitting it now.

The conversation degenerates from there.

***

"And then, get this. I hear the next day they snuck off to kriff anyway. Do they bribe somebody to get an empty tent? They do not. They pick a bush instead. A bush... full of leech-beetles."

Bash and Target erupt into horrified, laughing shouts; Boomer's right there with them, even though they're the one telling the story. Cog maybe can't groan _ewwww no!_ with them these days, but he's pretty sure his expression will get the point across.

They're playing sabacc. Most of them, anyway; Dax is off calling his boyfriend, and Knight Tai is in her quarters, reading or doing mysterious Jedi things or whatever else she's choosing to do with this shift. The rest of them are playing sabacc -- specifically, Snekfruit Spike, because somehow they've become Snekfruit Squad.

The conversation that led to that was one of those ones that happen sometimes after a mission: fueled by adrenaline and exhaustion and victory, freewheeling and more than a little giddy, impossible to recount later, barely possible to keep track of at the time. Cog had, in fact, tuned out two of the three overlapping discussions for a moment -- his leg was still hurting from the Kal'Shebbol crash, at that point, more than he entirely wanted to admit -- and when he'd tuned back in they'd coalesced into one discussion held at shouting volume, and Boomer was fervently insisting that snekfruit were amazing. And somehow, over the next few days, it turned out the name had stuck. Admittedly snekfruit _are_ delicious, but so are plenty of other things; it seems a bit thin, as a reason for a squad name. But he's not complaining. He doesn't have any better ideas, and anyway, clones know if anyone does that a name is what you make it.

Snekfruit Spike sabacc is basically GAR Burst, but with the rules modified so nobody needs quick hands or a working voice. It's also probably going to be the best-documented variant in the galaxy, at least if Bash and H1F1 have anything to say about it.

Cog trades a card. 11 of Sabers; not great. He signs, _Knew a soldier, same thing. It was bad._ His facial expression contextualizes: not tragic-bad, just hilarious-bad. ( _Joke,_ Boomer and Bash sign in unison to Target, who was looking worried, while Cog types the next bit.) "They always were bad at botany. Studied harder after they learned about Can'ian blistervines the hard way."

Talking about old friends -- telling stories at all -- feels rusty. Not bad, just a little strange.

But he's maybe a little more ready to do it, these days. Playing sabacc that he's not at a disadvantage for, with his squad, with a chatty message from Sixer (blistervine rashes long since healed) newly arrived on his comm. Abregado took out far too many of the old Wolfpack -- would have taken out Cog too, probably, if his fighter hadn't gotten shot down first -- and that's a wound Cog is careful to only think about when there's space to react privately to it. But Sixer was always unlucky with the small things and lucky when it's serious, and it sounds like their luck is still holding out so far.

The others better not make a big kriffing deal of one little story, though.

But they don't, even if Target goes a little wide-eyed. Boomer and Bash wince with the dramatic and gleeful sympathy of clones hearing a story like that that didn't happen to them. "No!" Boomer wails, laughing. "Shavit, that stuff lasts for weeks!"

Cog nods: yep, sure does.

Dax pokes his head in, with a questioning look. "Can'ian blistervine," says Target, and Dax does a full-body wince.

"We're having a full-squad lesson about identifying those if we're going anywhere near a planet that has ‘em. I'm not dealing with blistervine rash if I don't have to."

"Okay," Bash says, "totally agreed, but listen, I can top that story. But first..." At his gesture, H1F1 spreads Bash's cards on the table with a smug chitter. "Idiot's Array, my friends."

***

When Cog walks into the common area, Knight Tai is there, sitting on the floor cross-legged and straight-backed and serene, with her eyes closed. This is a common enough sight that it takes him an instant to notice that Target and Boomer are there too, sitting similarly (if less serenely). It's one of their meditation lessons.

If it were just Knight Tai, he'd take a seat -- her ability to commune with the Force in public spaces seems more or less bombproof, as a Jedi's presumably ought to be, and if she minded being interrupted she wouldn't be doing this here -- but with Target and Boomer, he's not sure. While he's debating that, Target's eyes snap open. Then he immediately looks sheepish.

 _Sorry,_ Cog signs.

Target shakes his head, looks even more sheepish immediately afterward, and squeezes his eyes shut again. His hair is currently dark at the roots and teal at the tips, which means his dull flush clashes slightly with it.

"Don't worry about it, Target." Knight Tai's face is still serene, but in her voice is the faint smile he's learning to hear. "We were nearly done anyway." She opens her eyes. "Hello, Cog."

It's not professional to feel warmed by a simple greeting, so Cog ignores the fact that he does. He gives a small wave to the room, and heads for one of the couches.

"And doing as badly as ever," Boomer says, cheerful as ever, "but we appreciate your patience, sir."

 _Joke,_ Cog signs. Less because he's sure Target needs it -- though it's usually kinder to err on the side of making sure -- and more because turnabout is fair play.

"Your progress is perfectly acceptable for your level of Force sensitivity and training," says Knight Tai, with the patience of a Jedi who's clearly said this multiple times before. "Both of you are doing fine."

Target ducks his head, shyly pleased. Boomer tosses off one of their patented incredibly sloppy salutes.

"Well," they say, "break time for me. I'm going to see if Bash managed to get that macro lens mod on H1F1. Coming, Target?"

"Oh, sure. Thank you, Knight Tai." Target's a lot more relaxed these days; he would have scuttled out of the room once, instead of just bobbing his head to her and following Boomer out.

Knight Tai hasn't moved from her seat on the floor. She casts a glance at Cog that he's pretty sure is inquiring. In answer, he turns his datapad to show her the front page of Republic HoloNet News. There's no particular article worth pointing out, at least not at first glance.

She grimaces slightly -- Cog feels the corner of his mouth twitch in answer -- before she suppresses the expression. "I'm not sure," she says carefully, "how complete that is, these days."

It's the official military channel these days, and the GAR-approved war news outlet. All of them are probably supposed to be unquestioningly in favor of RHNN's portrayals of the war. Hence the care, presumably; Cog knows perfectly well what quiet doubt and cynicism look like among clones, but it's probably a little different for Jedi. Hotkey #3: "Understood." _Useful to know what's there,_ he says. "It's part of the picture."

Her face clears. "Yes. That's true. I admit it sometimes frustrates me, but -- well, you're right. It's always important to look at what a variety of sources say about events, and what they hope to achieve by saying it. That's true in a historian's work as well." She shakes her head once, ruefully, and her high ponytail swishes across her back. "I suppose I'm still getting used to the greater immediacy of doing it for events I'm living through."

Once, Cog would have scoffed internally at the comparison to historians in the archives. He never thought it was unimportant, but it seemed a distant, ivory-tower irrelevancy compared to the front lines and the tactics of galactic war. Now, he knows Knight Tai better, and what a historian can bring to a front-lines squad.

Curious, he asks, _You did that? Reading holonews_ \-- there's not really a sign for that, but he's got a datapad right here to gesture at -- _in the Jedi Archives?_

"Sometimes," she answers readily. "It depends on the subject, and what kind of documentation is available. For some things, there's very little ephemera like that available. It wasn't preserved, or it simply wasn't seen as important enough to talk about in that context. Although sometimes even then --"

He wasn't sure if her past was a welcome subject or not, but apparently so. She's got the earnest look she gets sometimes when she's going into teacher-mode about something she really wants to share, and her hands, no longer serenely folded, are already lifting to gesture. Cog settles back to listen; RHNN's carefully chosen stories can wait.

***

When Snekfruit Squad goes for tattoos, Cog gets his on his bicep. Right next to the stylized wolf's head from before -- Boost's idea that time, Boomer's now.

The tattoos look pretty good together, he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Cog's sign language is, for the record, something that's been developed on the fly, based in part on battlefield signals, rather than a full sign language or something he grew up speaking. By the middle of the fic or so, it's well on its way to being a real pidgin. Still, it's nowhere near as versatile and eloquent as a real sign language, which is why all the switching back and forth between sign and vox-box.


End file.
